


Trust your Nose

by Tyranidlord



Series: Sos do dov [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Sparring, Taking up Arms (Skyrim Quest), Vilkas should listen to his brother more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 13:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13836057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranidlord/pseuds/Tyranidlord
Summary: Watching the latest newcomer nearly slap himself in his armoured thigh with the sword, Vilkas was already calculating the hundreds of hours needed to make him capable of cutting anything more than bread.“The old man said to have a look at you, so let's do this.” He sighed, looking over the man standing before him. “Just have a few swings at me so I can see your form. Don't worry, I can take it…”---------------A fortnight after the dragon attack, Vilkas finds himself running a few of the newbloods through their paces. He should listen to his brother a little more often though...





	Trust your Nose

**Author's Note:**

> This story may have come to mind while I was watching the swordfight scene in "A Princess Bride"

“Keep your eyes on him brother.”

 Vilkas rolled his eyes along with his shoulders, giving his towering hulk of a sibling a sideways glance. “Getting soft in your old age are we?”

 There was an audible clank of plates as Farkas shrugged and folded his arms. “Maybe, but I’m not getting soft in the head not to notice when a man is dangerous.”

 With a snort, Vilkas shook his head in the direction of one of the newcomers and laughed. “Him? Maybe to himself, but not others.”

 To the small collection of companions spectating the impromptu sparring session, there was nothing to show for the concern Farkas was projecting. He was not in any stretch of the imagination a small man. Standing a handful of centimetres over two metres tall and outweighing most snow trolls he was the sort of man who had to turn sideways to pass through doorways. Most men had smaller _thighs_ than Farkas’ biceps; biceps that left his chainmail creaking threateningly as he tensed. It made it all the more apparent that he was regarding one of the newcomers like an ice wolf smelling a sabre cat nearby.

 They watched as the newcomer stepped forward, dragging an iron bastard sword from a rack containing a collection of training weapons. Out of the collection of axes, blades, maces, hatchets, picks and hammers of various lengths and designs, he had picked one of the longer swords that could be wielded in one or both hands. Like the heavily nicked blade that Vilkas himself gripped firmly, they were blunted and used for training sessions where contact was expected or even guaranteed. The Companions may have been a band of legendary warriors but in recent years they had put certain restrictions in place when training with those of lesser skill.

 “Trust me brother, my nose tells me that you need to be careful.” A finger a thick as a Legion drillcane tapped against the repeatedly broken organ on his brother’s face.

 “You and your bloody nose has gotten us into more trouble than its worth.” Vilkas winced as he saw the way the newcomer gripped the sword. His hand wrapped around the hilt like he was trying to wring the neck of a chicken, the wrist locked into place without the flexibility needed for any form of finesse. “I still remember those nights after you ate those juniper berries that you swore _smelled perfectly fine._ ”

 If they weren’t in front of their shield brothers and sisters he would have grinned at his giant sibling’s discomfort. Farkas could remember all too well the way he had practically lived on top of a latrine for several days and since then he hadn’t even looked in a direction of a berry, not even at the mead from Helgen.

 “Still…” The rumble from within his chest reminded Vilkas of the way High Hrothgar had been a fortnight before. “Just… Watch him…”

 Turning to face his soon-to-be sparring partner Vilkas could agree somewhat with his giant twin. He would be watching the newcomer very closely as he was concerned the hapless fool was going to cut off his own hand or something. He was concerning, even despite the dullness of the blade that he swung with all the grace and ability of a half-dead skeever. As he gave it a few experimental twirls, the motions left some of the companions trying to contain their laughter.

  _A dragon lays dead outside the city; its head mounted within Breezehome’s basement, the Greybeards have summoned the Dragonborn and they are left with this_? He thought to himself. It had been a fortnight since the dragon attack and since then the companions had found themselves inundated with men and women seeking to join their ranks. Some had found beds within Jorrvaskr but others had been turned away. There had been the usual collection of cutthroats and would-be thieves that were turned aside, but for the most part everyone was accepted. The initial spar against the members of the Circle was more to judge their ability and how much training would be needed to make something out of the newbloods.

 Watching the latest newcomer nearly slap himself in his armoured thigh with the sword, he was already calculating the hundreds of hours needed to make him capable of cutting anything more than bread.

 “The old man said to have a look at you, so let's do this.” He sighed, looking over the man standing before him. “Just have a few swings at me so I can see your form. Don't worry, I can take it…”

 Feeling and ignoring the eyes of the more experienced companions watching near the mead hall’s doors, he gave another calm, measured glance over his sparring partner. Whoever he was he was strong, but despite Vilkas’ words to Kodlak earlier that morning it wasn’t just their arm that made a warrior. The newcomer was clad in heavy steel plate that still looked mostly fresh and with only the slightest trace of damage upon it. With only a few metres between them he could see the faint traces of Adrianne’s mark upon the armour. Normally that would be a few points in the stranger’s favour; Adrianne mightn’t have had the skill as Eorland with weapons but she knew what she was doing with armour and chainmail. But, all the armour in the world couldn’t help you if your opponent slipped a blade between plates, or battered their way through it with a hammer or pick.

 Shield in hand, gripping it tightly and feeling the straps locked tight around his plated forearm, Vilkas stepped forward as lightly as a prowling wolf. Even in forty kilograms of steel, fur and leather he was whisper quiet. His opponent however sounded like someone had thrown a handful of pots down the stairs leading to Dragonsreach, plodding himself forward with a trio of heavy paces and lunging forward with his blade.

 Vilkas slapped it contemptuously aside, treating it with as much concern as he would have swatting a fly. The newcomer’s form was pitiful, his technique none existent and while he could feel the rippling strength in the man’s arms behind the blow it had been utterly wasted and left him flat footed.

 His sigh was covered up with the ringing of metal as he twisted away from the backhanded swipe. The Dragonborn had been called by the Greybeards, dragons had returned to Skyrim and the civil war was raging out of control once more. Instead of finding himself basking in glory and honour he was instead facing off against an increasingly lacklustre group of individuals wishing to enter the famed halls of Jorrvaskr. At least the young woman he had fought before had a skill almost as impressive as her looks. She had almost managed to slip her blade in past his shield, a feat that most struggled to achieve even after months of training.

 The iron training sword slapped ineffectively against his shield and he barely even grunted with the effort. Most shield fighters and those who fought them knew that you had to get around the protection they offered. His opponent had instead full his full strength and bodyweight into a blow that he must have been hoping would go through it instead. He had about as much chance of succeeding in breaking through Vilkas’ block as he would head-butting Winterhold into the Sea of Ghosts.

 Another poorly timed and wasteful blow was turned aside and Vilkas moved, sliding his feet across the courtyard with only millimetres between the stones and his boots. With each step he forced his opponent to follow, keeping the advantage firmly within his grasp and controlling the fight. Other than a handful of parries he hadn’t even attacked, merely watching as his foe began wearing himself down trying fruitlessly to smash his way through the companion’s defence. It was like he was trying to knock down the city walls with a sculptor’s hammer.

 Even his footwork was appalling Vilkas thought, watching how the newcomer almost staggered and tripped over the uneven stones set into the courtyard. Against even the lowliest of bandits he would have ended up gutted dozens of times over; unless they took pity on the poor fool in any case.

 Vilkas however didn’t have much in the way of pity in training. He was ruthless and exacting, and as such he could turn even the worst and least skilled whelp into a companion of legend. Although, with this new blood it appeared that his work would be cut out for him.

 Twisting slightly, he deflected the training sword away, overbalancing his foe who had once again put all his weight into a thrust that left him wide open for an attack. Like a streaking lightning bolt his sword flicked out, slapping his opponent across the knuckles with the flat of his blade and making the tensed up fist spring open like a dwemer trap. The sword clattered across the cobblestones, but even before he opponent had realised what had happened or even felt the pain he continued his attack. Overbalanced and with a foe within grappling distance, the newcomer could do nothing before an armoured elbow slammed into the bridge of his nose.

 Disarmed, knuckles and face already starting to swell, the newcomer lay flat on his back, blinking away tears and shaking his head to clear the starbursts in his eyes and the blood from his sinuses. Within seconds though he was clambering his way to his feet, earning him a few points from the scowling Companion standing nearby.

  _He can take a hit at least_ … Vilkas thought to himself, crushing the urge to give a satisfied grin as the dropped sword was dragged from where it had fallen. _And he’s not willing to give up. That’s good…_

 The laughter from some of the other companions echoed about as the newcomer hawked and spat a wad of blood and snorted in the attempt to clear the blood from his nose. he was having difficulty grasping the sword in a hand that would already have visible bruising, but he wasn’t willing to give up just yet.

 Leaning against a post, Farkas’ eyes met his brother’s and he shrugged. There was still a considerable amount of concern souring the air around his ‘big’ brother; a concern that Vilkas could taste in the back of his throat. Not fear as such, just an edged wariness that for the life of him he couldn’t understand. Once he had seen Farkas beat a troll to death with his bare hands and their blood-gift ensured that anything less than a dragon wouldn’t faze them in the slightest. But here he was, watching every move the stranger made with an expression matching a she-wolf looking out for her litter.

 “You have much to learn pup.” He said to his bleeding adversary as he wiped blood away with the back of his hand. “But you might just make it.”

 A grin appeared on the newcomers face, splitting the goatee with white teeth. “I thought that this was best out of three?”

 Vilkas spared a glance at Farkas who nodded, his unease clearly growing. “He’s right brother.”

 “Fine.” There was no denying his weariness, he had sparred three others already in the past hour and none had managed to win a single round against him. Other than the members of The Circle there were none that would provide a challenge, but all the other hopefuls had gone more than a single round. Despite how the result wasn’t going to be contested in the slightest, it would be dishonourable not to give this one the same privilege as the others.

 Rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck he sighed again, not allowing it to be audible to his opponent or any of the spectators. He was not going to admit it to anyone, but since the Valtheim and other passes had been blocked with the Greybeards’ summons he was feeling trapped and most restless than normal. Whatever the cause of his restlessness he wished nothing more than to be out in the wilds, hunting and allowing the wolf to satiate itself.

 “Hey Kaius!” a voice from the small crowd called out There was an undercurrent of amusement in the tone that was similar, but not matching the laughter from the other spectators. “Are you just going to keep using your left hand?”

 The smile grew larger, the black bristles stained with blood making it appear more of a good-natured snarl. “Oh, that’s right.” A palmed hand slapped himself mockingly in the forehead and Vilkas watched as the newcomer juggled the sword from one hand to the other. “I forget sometimes that I am right handed.”

 Vilkas’ eyes moved into the crowd and focussed on the short brunette who had almost managed to breach his guard earlier. He remembered how she had accompanied this armoured stranger into Jorrvaskr where Kodlak had told him to test their skills. They were two of the half dozen in the past day who had recently come seeking to become companions and out of all of them the good-looking woman was the only one that he considered to be of any real worth.

 Forged out of iron into the rough shape of a sword, the training blade was the sort of weapon that Eorland could hammer out in less than an hour. The old smith was able to work absolute miracles with metal but he knew the importance of having something useful to train with. While his normal work created blades sharp enough to cleave a cloud in half, he did make training blades that were almost works of art in their own right. Each were purposely dull edged, impossible to sharpen properly but were almost impossibly strong. More experienced members could use live blades against one of Grey-Mane’s training swords with no fear of breaking them in half or dulling the edges of their swords.

 Farkas had been uneasy, and now the wolf within Vilkas growled as he saw the way the simple training sword fit into the newcomer’s hand as though it had been made specifically for him. The stance changed too, feet finding a more secure footing and no longer did he appear to be the slow, plodding excuse of a warrior he was only seconds before. Where there was clumsiness and ineptitude, was now a graceful, light footed adversary who stared him down.

 His eyes darted between the newcomer, and his female companion who was already sharing drinks with Ria. What was her name again? Sophie or something? He never bothered getting a habit of remembering the names of the new bloods for the first few weeks. And what did she say his opponent’s name was? Kaius? Why did that sound familiar…

 Pushing it into the back of his mind he shrugged to himself and readied himself for another round. Thirty thousand people called Whiterun home, and no one man could know them all. Hells, even though the city had been home to a dragon-slayer for a fortnight now, no one knew who he was or even what they looked like. Less than a dozen guards had come back from the destroyed watchtower, and those few who had been capable of talking hadn’t been able to tell much. The stories and rumours that were travelling the city of who the supposed Dragonborn was were varied and contradictory. Give it another week and he wouldn’t be surprised if he began hearing stories of how the Dragonborn was twenty metres tall, rode dragons and shot lightning bolts from his arse.

 The tingle of unease was building though and he completely missed the way his brother had tensed and was no longer leaning against the post. There was recognition in the giant’s eyes and also realisation at how and why he was feeling uneasy.

 “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

 The grin on Kaius’ face grew larger and he slid out a foot in front of him, lowering his stance very slightly and drawing his blade across his body and resting it lightly against his left vambrace. There was nothing to show of the man who Vilkas had just so effortlessly beaten, and he couldn’t help but notice the wolf within was instinctively raising its hackles.

 It was almost like a completely different person stood before him. As he bashed the flat of his sword across the front of his shield to signify the start of the fight he realised with a start that in a way it was. Before, his opponent had been using his non-master hand, but now that he had swapped his blade around all the issues and problem techniques had vanished. It was almost like watching a pile of broken ceramic shards tumbling into a pile and creating a mosaic.

 Kaius moved, again not waiting for Vilkas to make his own move and lunging. Instinctively twisting his shield into its path Vilkas watched, horrified as the sword twisted in mid thrust, snaking in and around his shield as he pushed it away from his body. On nothing more than instinct he twisted his own blade upwards, catching and flicking the point away from his wolfs-head gorget and throat with only centimetres to spare.

 Within seconds the realisation that this was no longer the same fight as the previous one had sunk in, but his instincts had already taken control. Honed to a razored edge from a lifetime of fighting, Vilkas had fought and killed nearly everything Skyrim had to offer. Now, in the training courtyard of Jorrvaskr he found himself fighting with an intensity that he had never experienced before. Before several heartbeats had passed, both had traded blows that left the training yard ringing with metal on metal. Using both shield and blade he somehow managed to keep the dulled edge of Kaius’ sword from his throat and vitals. Several times it had come close, only to be parried or blocked at the last second. However every time he fended it off, the iron sword would reappear, flashing in and around his guard in ways he had never thought possible.

 Roaring, his blood running hot with the wolf he went on the offensive. Blows were turned aside on shield and he used the layers of lacquered wood and steel to fend off Kaius’ blade as he went for the kill. Kaius had no shield himself, relying on his own agility and skill to block and fend off Vilkas’ attacks, twisting aside to let strikes hit nothing but air. Several times he blocked and parried with nothing more than his armoured forearm, twisting the blade aside and deflecting strikes on such a precise angle that the blows would just glance away.

 Ripostes and counterattacks flowed from parries and deflections, stabs and swings would roll into others and an awed hush fell on the observers as they watched them fight. Several times Vilkas would have sworn that his opponent had overextended or had left an opening for him to exploit, only to find that it had been a perfectly set ruse to draw him in. Other times, blows that he thought were set to be ‘killing blows’ had been nothing more than feints to force him into raising his shield just a little higher than normal, or to deflect it further away. Each time he would find himself hard pressed to keep the dulled edge of Kaius’ training sword away from him.

 Both began using more and more of their own particular skills. Kaius flowed like water around the rock of Vilkas’ defence, each move graceful and transferring all the momentum and energy of each strike into the next. It was a never ending assault of twirling strikes, flicking stabs and lightning quick ripostes that were soon joined with fists and feet. Every part of his body was a weapon and Vilkas was suddenly very glad that he was wearing his wolf plate. Otherwise he would’ve been waking up the next morning with many more bruises than normal.

 For his part Vilkas soaked up the punishment, using his slightly larger build, heavier armour and thick round shield to counter Kaius’ unceasingly quick attacks. Blows were deflected or absorbed, punches and kicks were redirected to solid parts of his armour and always his own sword was seeking a gap in Kaius’ defence.

 Kaius twisted, forcing Vilkas’ sword aside on the noticeably battered vambrace protecting his wrist and forearm and creating a gap only a few centimetres wide for a tenth of a second. Slashing inwards at neck height he rolled his sword into the blow, a blow that had it been a live blade would have taken Vilkas’ throat away in a spray of crimson. Instead, the edge rebounded off the shield with a clang as loud as a funeral gong, reverberating through the air and setting Vilkas’ teeth on edge as he felt the impact deep in the bones and meat of his arm. There was a lot of strength behind Kaius’ attacks, and in the back of his mind he cursed his brother. Farkas had been absolutely right on how dangerous Kaius was. No one outside of the circle had given any of them such a run for their money before.

 Like a snake Kaius dropped under the swinging counter-blow of Vilkas’ own sword, almost appearing to vanish from sight and removing himself from the path of the blade. He was as quick as he was strong, and unlike a good majority of the Companions he could use his fists and body for more than just brawling. There was an extremely agile fighter under the layers of steel and chainmail that he wore, one that Vilkas was suddenly introduced to as he felt both of his legs get taken out from under him as effectively as a dwemer blade trap.

 This time it was his turn to land on his back, his shield slamming into the ground just as loudly as he did. His sword didn’t leave his hand though. Even despite the surprise and the way he was suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, his grip didn’t lessen. It didn’t help him at all though, as he suddenly felt the pressure on his wrist from an armoured boot and the metallic tapping on his gorget.

 Kaius’ stood over him, blotting out the afternoon sun and silhouetting everyone but the grin he wore. “It is best out of three… right?”

 Silence had descended on Jorrvaskr and he could faintly see the astonished expressions of all who had witnessed the fight. It had been over in only a couple of minutes, but the intensity had been shocking for even some of the more veteran shield-brethren.

 The training blade vanished from his throat and a hand appeared it its place, the knuckles obviously swelling under the leather gloves. For a moment his wounded pride fought with his winded body, before reaching up and gripping it with his shield-arm.

 “I haven’t had a fight like that in years.” Kaius said as he helped haul Vilkas to his feet.

 His lungs still burned with the impact on the stone courtyard, but he forced it under his control. “Neither have I.” The reply was surprisingly honest, and he looked over to where Farkas was standing.

 Out of all of the companions, Farkas was the only one who didn’t seem shocked at the outcome, standing there with a grin that had temporarily overpowered the unease he had minutes previously. As he gripped his sword and tested how secure his shield was to his arm Vilkas continued staring at his brother, seeing the wolfish grin and the tap…tap…tap… of a finger against a nose.


End file.
